


Blind Road

by Lentomurri



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Choking, Eventual Relationships, Light BDSM, M/M, Secret Identity, Soulmates, They are seriously fucked up and so am I, This is getting dirtier everyday more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:51:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lentomurri/pseuds/Lentomurri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is a lonely man. As the night leaves him restless, he wanders the streets of NY.<br/>The blind guy he meets in an alley is lonely, too. <br/>  And fucked up like him. <br/> Not all who wanders are lost.<br/>Is this going to go further than a dead end?</p><p>I am building this story from an unusual beginning. What looks like random sex takes a deeper existence. Are they going to hurt each other or save each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Frank Castle doesn't know who Matt Murdoch is.  
  He doesn't know that Matt Murdoch is Daredevil, nor that he is a promising lawyer who graduated with the best marks, nor that he is a valuable friend and that he has a mild crush on his blonde assistant.  
  He doesn't even know his name. And in all honesty, why would anyone like Frank be involved with someone so upbeat as Matt?  
  All that Frank Castle knows -and nobody else knows, which is actually a great point taken- is that Matt Murdoch has a thing for alleys. And even though he might not sound as something _that_ great, it doesn't let him sleep at nights anymore.

 

It had been a mild Saturday Night in April, the darkness cradled by Clubs' music sliding out from the doors whenever they opened, to let customers in and annoying wasted ones out. Frank walked out of his building just to get fresh air and a bite to some fast food, but mostly to get a break from the pile of targets which were filling his list.  
  Drunk youngsters roamed the streets molesting the passers-by with lewd dance moves. Kicked garbage bins and greasy hamburger packaging framed the show of NY by night like a post-apocalyptic screenshot. Some people were leaning on the walls, throwing up, muttering disconnected words, in many cases pretending to be much more intoxicated just to get laid and be justified. Hide-and-seek behind the _I don't remember a thing of Saturday, like, total zero, what did I do again?!,_ was the international sport for party goers.  
_That,_ Frank didn't tolerate. He provided many reasons to be called insane (and he _was_ called one in the reserved circles of superheroes of New York), but he never faked bliss while facing the consequences of his actions. He was crazy big time but did he ever deny that? No, never. He had precise reasons behind what looked like foolish actions. He had refined, deeply thought reasons for every single step he took. Be it a homicide or helping some kids crossing roads.

As he walked past another nightclub, he caught the attentions of a couple of girls. The 20ish matching blondes had made a noise at the sight of that tall, muscled man in leather jacket -an actual _squeak_ which scratched the inside of Frank's brain like broken chalk. They made no mystery of the coupled services they offered -one of them licked her lips right near Frank's ear, producing a smacking sound that didn't trigger Frank's aggressiveness just because he was a gentleman, unless the woman in question was a killer or a human traffic's dealer. Getting laid was something he had no interest in, at least his body seemed to refuse any waste of energy on such petty activity. Revenge was a full time job. He muttered a _no_ in his deep growl and the knees of the girls became puddle. He offered no other explanation as he pushed past them, lightning a cigarette at the same time. Was there something wrong with him, to refuse what looked like a massive threesome? He skipped the question. _Everything is wrong with me.  
_  

  He turned in the alley behind the Club 64, making his way away from the chaos, directed towards the dump he called home - _I got to avoid this noise before it fucks my brain, fuck the dinner-_ and stopped on his path.  
  There was a blind guy in office suit. A guy standing still with a stick between his hands and red-mirrored glasses to cover his eyes. The man was so out of place in that dirty dead-end street that Frank considered briefly the possibility of an ambush.

 _Sending a blind guy? Unless I upset some charities I'd say my enemies should fire their Recruitment manager._  
  
  The man was waiting for someone considering that he kept checking the audio clock.

_1:13 am._

The electronic voice was the only sound in the alley. Frank noticed how silent the man was. His breath was inaudible and so was his hand while loosening the tie. Maybe he was a father waiting for his teen kid to come out of the club, although those didn't look at all like teens' places -and he didn't look like a father either. Maybe he was a worried lover waiting for his girl coming back from the party - _well, how naïve is that?-._

_Whoever he is, he is the strangest man I've seen in this shithole. There is a halo around him. Something familiar._

_Could he be an ex-soldier?_

 Frank stopped his thoughts at the doorstep. That man had the posture of a soldier -a natural straight back ready for action, the calm breathing of people in maniacal control of themselves- but all the rest suggested a different kind of life. Corporate business? He smelled like offices and papers. And he was too young and not scarred enough to be a veteran -even though there was a hint of a bruise visible on his cheekbone under the dim light of the lamps.  
  Frank inspected the man while walking towards him. Middle thirties, well dressed, simple haircut, stubble on the cheeks and shirt open down to the third hole but otherwise impeccable. Frank could read movements like an hawk read a rabbit, and the man gave no signs of drunkenness or alterations. He was simply standing, which would have been creepy enough considering the location even without the details of suit and disability.  
  Castle wasn't a man for creepiness, though. He strolled on, taking another drag from his cigarette. As he crossed the man -precisely, when he was from two steps of crossing him- he heard the man mumble.

It had sounded like a question.

Had it been any other guy, he would have ignored it. Being a blind man alone, he considered if maybe the man needed help.

_Speaking of naïve._

 “What did you say, mate?” Frank asked, killing the cigarette under his shoe.  
 “I asked, are you strong?” the blind man repeated.  
His voice was harsh, like the distant roar of a thunderstorm. His expression was calm like a Sunday morning. The contrast was electrifying.

 

Frank blinked twice. He looked around, suspicious, but there was none in sight. His senses didn't alert him about anyone spying from some roofs, either. The question was awkward but so was New York. Maybe the man was just a nutter searching for trouble.  
 The man kept standing in the same direction. Frank studied his profile, as if trying to find clues into the wispy beard, the focused expression, or the side-looped hint of a smile. There were none to be taken.  
   
"I didn't get it.” he replied, feeling dumb. And he didn't like that feeling, now, did he.  
 

  The blind man turned, facing Frank, an inch from his jaw. He was slightly shorter, but not enough to establish any Alpha man in the challenge. He kept his stand and the hands around the stick tightened. The posture was confident, demanding. But aggressive? No.

 “I guess I'm not the only disabled around here. You are obviously deaf.” the man sentenced with a smirk. Frank read something unmistakable in that smile. There was a challenge, alright, but not one which would end up in fists. At least not in the canonical way.

 

“I heard you, pal, and getting on my nerves won't make my answer any better.”  
“I still don't hear the answer, though. Might be that you are just muscles and thick smoke?”  
“Might be that you want you face reshaped?” _Threatening a blind man? I am growing stronger in my social performances.  
_ “That wasn't what I asked.” the stranger sighed. He seemed to be losing interest. Oddly enough, Frank didn't want that to happen.

Had it been his inner fighter which had gotten into his blood? Couldn't flee a provocation even from the strangest of sources. The man tapped on his stick twice, before turning again in his previous position, dismissing Frank without another word.

 “I am very strong.”

 Frank replied too fast and too pissed, sounding like a teenager trying to attract the attention of his coach. Number Two feeling he didn't like in just 2 minutes exchange with that stranger. The need to demonstrate he was the best, the man for every season. Wasn't that what got him in trouble during war?

_It's what it made you a hero, though. Medals, remember?_

The man stopped, turned once more. Frank felt like a complete idiot for believing one second that he needed to be gentle with that guy. His appearance sold him as a blind man and not much more. His aura on the other side overwhelmed Frank like a truck on a dog.

 “That answer doesn't need to get any better.” the stranger responded, offering the end of his tie to Frank.

Hypnotised, Castle wrapped the fabric around his hand, feeling the breeze of the man's breath closer to his lips. He was reminded of the question he had just asked himself few minutes before when the girls had stopped him offering cheap sex.  
  The answer hadn't changed, but the meaning was totally different, as he tightened the tie around his knuckles and the man's lips let out a soft gasp of anticipation right on his mouth.

 

_Everything is wrong with me._

 


	2. Subtle war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night keeps rolling on and leaves no doubts behind. Frank and the stranger seem to understand each other in many ways - are they playing dangerous? Is there any danger left for men brought up into war?

_ Did he drag me or did I push him? It doesn't matter. His back has bounced the hit right back to me. I bet the bricks have hurt him. Is that why his breath is so ragged? Or is it because I'm choking him with this posh black tie? _

_Or could it be my own breath shaking like this_?

The stranger inhaled and exhaled in a broken rhythm and Frank followed him, his lungs junkies for oxygen. Their bodies overlapped in a storm of hands reaching for buttons and zips. The man opened Frank's leather jacket and Castle rewarded him by squeezing his neck once more, the tie tight-fisted in his hand. He wasn't wrong. The stranger left out another low moan.  
  Frank turned to look at the entrance of the street and the man grabbed his chin in between firm fingers, turning him back towards himself. Attention seeker. He was dealing with a man who knew exactly what he wanted: he wasn't a weak, deluded, passive faggot just wandering in a Saturday night. He had been waiting for the good prey. The good prey which would be a good predator. And wasn't that the summary of Frank's life?

_ Why did he stop me? How many people must have passed here? What do blind people have, a sort of radar for narcissistic freaks into dominance? Is that even a thing? _

__ The man was desirable and torn with excitement and expectations. But he didn't look at all like a victim, or like a nymphomaniac, or like a hooker -not with that posh suit and the dignified accent when he had spoken. That was a man from higher levels.  
  But Frank felt they were equal. They were equal in letting themselves go into unspoken sexual interactions based on nothing but chemistry. And their inner-selves, fuck, they had something in common despite the appearances.  
  That man was a veteran, after all. But of which war, Frank couldn't know. He knew that the man's low growls on his lips were maddening and that his hands were something more than experts while playing with his nipples, torching and squeezing them enough to make Frank jolt.

_ And there it is. The smirk. Once more. He's getting off on power. _

They had been into fumbling for 15 minutes and there had been no kisses involved. There was a battle going on and no truce approved. Frank had started to play over-the-pants hand stuff, feeling the hard shape against the expensive material. He pulled the tie towards himself and the man licked his own lips, at an inch from Frank's ones.

 “On your knees.” Frank ordered, groping the man stronger.  
  The man didn't move. His smile sharpened.  
 “I said, get on your knees.” Frank retorted, and the smile widened.  
 “Make me, big man.” was the raspy reply.

Frank pondered how far could that request go. He had already fallen knees-deep into the role-play. He wouldn't force the stranger in a cheap way, transforming it all in a low-cost rape. That would spoil the fun, and besides, if Frank had felt a single vibe of the man being not in total control, he wouldn't even be there. Consent was is only rule in sex. The others were negotiable.  
 He read the signs: the man wouldn't be adverse to violence. His face wasn't hiding, his arms were abandoned at the sides and promised no defence. His body language was begging for it.

_Violence is what this is about, anyway_.

He slapped him so hard that his own palm hurt. The blow had been precise, avoiding nose and teeth, catching half of the face and the bottom lip. He spotted a small blood drop. And the cock in the trousers throbbed under his hand.  
 The stranger turned back towards him and Frank asked himself if the eyes hidden under those glasses would be lustful, despite their being dead.  
 He wondered which colour they were.  
 As he thought about it, the man laughed.

“That's all you have for me, big boy?” 

The successive slaps had been harder and still perfect. The man licked blood and laughed again until he felt Frank taking the belt from his trousers.

Frank had let go of the tie to employ both hands. The man's trousers were perfectly tailored on his size, the belt was just an elegant accessory. Elegant and made in highly-priced hide, the kind that doesn't break easily and doesn't bent when swung into air. The air had stopped around them as if the stranger had inhaled it all in a quiet sigh of anticipation.  
  Frank caressed the man's chin with the buckle, staining it with blood. He couldn't help it but lick the red trail, and the man's lips parted, and he almost gave into a kiss - _ Would he bite me, or would he suck the very soul out of me?_

But that wasn't the direction from which he wanted the man to suck him, right?  
  He moved back three steps and enjoyed the view.  
  The man's hard-on was straining the trousers. One of his shirt's helm hung out, the jacket was wrinkled on the sides.  
  His lips were the queen of the showcase. Glimmering with blood and parted, promising so much honey that Frank thought that that was a man to enjoy on a bed, like, many times. But well, he was a man of chances. Better take any offered than waste it on ifs.

  He raised an arm and with surgical accuracy the belt landed on the man's chest, hitting a nipple. The moan he got back triggered Frank's inner demons.

  He kept hitting the man, thighs, neck, his chest again. When he ordered him to turn, the man didn't let out a single protest, he just obeyed.  That's more like it,  Frank thought savagely. He hit his ass, admiring how the hips seemed to search for more. He hit him again and the man planted his hands on the wall, spread his legs, offered himself for so much more than a blowjob in the streets. Castle pushed his male animal back inside, at least for few minutes.

  He rushed back on the man, leaning on his neck, biting and licking as if he was starving. The man welcomed him back, moaning lowly when Frank roughly palmed his cock once more. There was nothing quiet about him now, when Frank turned him and pinned his wrists on the wall, to the sides, and bent down enough to take the tortured nipple between his lip, sucking and caressing it with his tongue, squeezing it against the rim of his teeth.  
  He felt the man's hands struggle and one of them slid out of the grip, landing in his hair, and Frank found it oddly tender. The stranger wasn't sweet or affectionate -well, why would you be with a random guy picked up in the streets-, but Frank could spot loneliness when he met it. He was a professional in that personal war.  
  He moved up, ignored his basic bestial senses and kissed the man. After a startled moment where the guy had been paralysed, Frank felt the tongue move back against his own, felt his need, his skills, his ravishing heat. The  hand in his hair pulled, clinging to Frank, his face turned on the side following Frank's movements. They were moving like long-time lovers, as if they had been kissing for ages.  
  That was chemistry at his finest.

When they parted, Frank didn't ask the man to get down on his knees.

The man simply did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the teasing second chapter! I'm working on this fic with questionable dedication... And I pass by alleys with a creepy smile. D:


	3. Restless Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank can't sleep. And he remembers the night he got scarred from an impossible man.  
> Somewhere in NY, someone else is restless as well. 
> 
> Frank's memory plays tricks on him. The stranger has hit him deep down in the core.

 

Frank sipped his cup down to the last drop.  
  Since Midnight he was pacing around his living room, occasionally putting some water on the gas and gulping tons of coffees down. Outside of the window New York offered another display of lights and traffic, but what was keeping him restless were flashes of the night in the alley nine days before.  
  He had roamed around the area other times, but the stranger hadn't been there anymore. Frank had sprinkled a pile of cigarettes on the floor of that road as a contemporary territory brand.

  _There had been an infinite moment between the kiss and the kneeling down. Frank inhaled so deeply that his lungs shook. Had the thought not been totally baseless, he could have sworn that the stranger had looked at him.  
__The bricks were covered in mould and thickened by layers of NY pollution. He could feel it deep in his pores as he put his hands on the wall, but couldn't pay any less attention to it. His concentration was_ _absorbed by the figure crouching at his feet. His nails dug into the dirty lime as the stranger took his cock halfway in a smooth move._

 Wandering between the TV channels had been proven worse than staring at NY through the window. As he lightened the hundredth cigarette of the night he skipped all the telemarketing, the night talk show, the 30's mute movies and landed where he could get relief, on the porn broadcasting.  
 He rolled his eyes at the sight of the gay channel. Those men were attracting like meat exposed in a butchery. They had no class, no teasing, no smirks - _they are no stranger,_ he thought displeased- and although in the past he would have shuffled the sheets with a couple of them, now they looked like a pale copy of something perfect.

  _F_ _rank felt that the man was mechanical about the blowjob as if performing a long-perfectioned task. The passion he had perceived in the kiss had faded away after a few minutes. The guy had switched into a sort of defensive mechanism, and even if the blowjob was textbook Frank didn't like things which didn't live up their potential.  
__He grabbed the man's hair and pulled him roughly away, looking at the saliva dripping from his lips. He saw the same lips trying an objection but he shut that on the start._

 _“Now, you are going to do this properly, my friend.”_  
“ _I was.”_  
_“You give those kind of heads to teenagers if you are into that. And obviously you are not.”_  
_“And what am I into?”  
__“Into me.”_

_The stranger's smirk faded._

 Frank skipped the gay channel and went for the straight one. The porn-stars were perfect in their plastic boobs and gymnastic poses. Somehow he felt he could forgive them for not being the stranger. They were ready-to-eat and he opened the zip of his trousers. How long since his last jacking off? Months, probably.

_When the stranger had moved Frank's hand away from his face he knew he had fucked up._  
_-Into me-? Where had that come from? There wasn't a romantic meaning -more like a possessive one- but Frank felt nonetheless that he had crossed a line, that the phrasing had been wrong. That he had startled and scared the guy._  
_However, he couldn't think so much longer. When the man had started again, there was nothing to think about. Textbook had become masterpiece._  
_Frank swore between gritted teeth and slid his foot between the man's legs; the man moaned around his cock, sending vibrations up to his groins that made his knees give up for a couple of seconds.  
_ _As the man had started to rub against his boot, Frank had actually laughed. The endorphins had shot him right through the brain, his pupils blew and he planted his hand on the man's hair, but he didn't push nor pulled. He let the guy keep his pace._

 The hand made a sleek noise as it squeezed and moved up and down his length, in a steady rhythm which was more functional than passionate. The girls were promising heaven but what Frank wanted was hell.  
 He bit the cigarette butt as one of the girls went down to her knees. The oversized breast were a distraction. Frank narrowed his eyes and pictured a white shirt and an expensive suit straining on his own boot.  
  
  _When Frank had stopped him, when he had pulled the man up on his feet, he had known that they had entered an unknown field for both of them. Despite their minutes-long meeting they had managed to undress each other of a significant number of weaknesses and trigger points._  
_Frank grabbed the man's face in his hands and this time it had been the stranger to lean towards him, re-enacting the previous kiss. Frank tasted himself on the man's tongue and the sensation disturbed him, as if his own taste had invaded an otherwise perfect place._  
_Frank wrapped a hand around the man's neck and squeezed. Again, another reward. The man's tongue went mental inside his mouth._  
_And it had been the man to open his own trousers, grabbing his free hand and placing it firmly on his ass._  
_Branded silk underwear.  
__The thought triggered an obscure spot inside Frank's brain. As if he was about to invade a far-away land._

 

The masturbation went on for a boring slice of time, with no satisfying peaks.  
 Frank stopped the useless ministration and walked back to his room, aiming for the whiskey. He glanced at the clock, who showed a merciless 1.47 am. He looked at his rifle, diligently waiting for action in a corner of the room. Wondered if he could go and take a couple of criminal pigeons down.  
 His gaze landed instead on the belt. That man's belt, forgotten on the floor of the street, now safely hanging on the wardrobe shutter.  
 The girls kept making inane sounds from the living room, but Frank could have been inside a well, so undistinguished the noise was. All he could see, perceive, were the man's features thickening around that worked piece of hide.  
 He walked towards it and took it. The material was comfortably warm, as if it had stored the heat from that night.  
 Frank lowered the hand on himself.  
 Slowly, he wrapped the belt around his aching cock. He squeezed.

 

_Had he turned the man towards the wall? Had the man turned by himself? Beats of action got lost in the heat._  
_Frank unrolled the condom that the stranger had fished from the pocket. Wore it. Hands on the wall, the man was waiting patiently, his need betrayed only by the ragged breath. Frank admired him once more. He pulled the shirt up, feasted on the man's spine, licking it and biting the defined muscle. He noticed scars. He thought of BSDM games._  
_He felt a roaring possessiveness again. He could do better than whoever got that man before._  
_But he just kept going down. That the stranger didn't expect what happened next was evident by the way he gasped and bit his lip when Frank dug the tongue all the way inside him._  
_As the astonishment faded, the man lowered a hand and opened himself for Castle, hips following the tongue's movements. Frank heard the man muttering against his arm suffocated pleas. His jaw was sore, but the way the man shook was hypnotising. He could have gone on for years._  
_That, if the man hadn't start to beg him to fuck him.  
_ _Frank stood up._

 

As he laid down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the hide around the sensitive skin of his cock, Frank relived the man's words.

  _Oh God please fuck me._

 They were hardly the most elaborated words or the most refined requests, but Frank could swear he had heard nothing in his life that had turned him on more.

  _Oh God please fuck me._

 It wasn't a sexy _please._ It wasn't a demanding _please._  
 It was a defeated, needy _please._ The man had surrendered, completely, body and mind.  
  Frank sped up his hand. He felt the precum wet the rim of the belt, felt his balls squeezed in regular shivers. He was usually silent. That night he growled as he had done on the man's neck.

 

_When he pushed inside it was like penetrating butter, and still Frank felt the man tighten around him, felt his body interrupted, heard the man sigh on his arm and the blood changing course, leaving the brain empty, rushing towards their excitement._  
_The stranger moved backwards as Frank slammed into him, again and again, meeting him halfway to take all his cock inside._  
_Frank was aware of panting inside the man's ear, was aware that their breaths were saturating the small space between their faces, was aware of the man begging right on his cheek, was aware of himself nodding at that request, aware of his hand keeping one hip still while the other pulled the man's hair with awkward softness.  
_ _He was aware that their sex was rough but their intimacy was scarier than the violence._

 Frank moved his hips upwards, strangling his cock with the belt, denying himself pleasure. He squeezed his eyes and saw the man, _felt_ the man, smelled his sweat and looked at his ruffled hair, and the hands on himself became two.

  _“Touch me,” the man had said._  
_And Frank had done it, and from there it went spiralling towards pure instinct._  
_His hand had mercifully jerked the stranger off as the man rode his cock, demanding, needing attention on both sides. The man hadn't held his moans anymore and Frank got high on the raspy sounds raining on his face. He bit the man's neck because he couldn't kiss him._  


_"Next time I'll fuck you frontwards,” Frank had whispered, and the man, breaking under the orgasm which ran over him, had replied_  
_“There is no such thing as next time,”_  
_and as the night faded into the highest peak, as Frank came inside the man and the man inside his hand, he knew he had fucked up big time.  
_ _That he wouldn't forget._

 

As the rage for those final words

_There is no such thing as next time_

hit him once more in the core, Frank bit his lip so hard that he felt the metallic taste of blood on his gums. The kick he got from it was enough to finally push him over the edge, to stain his sheets and the damned belt he had kept as a relic.

 _No such thing  
_ he breathed deeply, lying, his eyes narrowed towards the ceiling

 _as next time  
_ and threw the belt on the floor, reaching for another cigarette on the night-stand.

 He lighted it up. He wouldn't go to that alley anymore, like a beggar. That was it. He had got the message.  
 He could swear that the rain outside smelled like that stranger, though. He could swear that the night was full of his moans.  
 He poured the whiskey he had come in the bedroom for, gulped it down, looked at the rifle and decided for a hunting criminals' night. He glanced at the dirty belt on the floor, recalled how the man had dressed himself back, without a word, and how he had given him the stick, how the man had thanked him as if they had just met over a traffic light, and with that he was gone, tapping the stick on the floor as he walked towards the main road, his dress impeccable if not for the loss of that belt.  
 Frank stood up, walked in the toilet, washed his hands and his face. Looked at himself in the mirror.

  _Everything is wrong with me._  
  
  
Four blocks from him, Matt Murdock couldn't sleep.  
  He had chucked the fourth drink of the night. He had new stitched wounds. In the corner stood his walking stick.  
  He had seen the stranger he had fucked another eight times. The man had gone back to the alley all the successive week.  
  And so had he. Staying on the roof, looking down. Watching the man enlighten a cigarette and wait.  
  Wait for what? He had told him there would be no next time.

_Then why was I there, those nights? Waiting with him, until he gave up? Smelling the smoke, the leather, listening to his heartbeat?_

Matt sighed. He perfectly knew why.

  _Because everything is wrong with me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I love how this story is going, (I swear, they do this all by themselves!) and I'd love even more to know if you like it! Hope you enjoy as I enjoyed writing it!

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please, comment. I love to hear opinions. I started this as a oneshot, it's turning up as something completely different!!


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